Page 26 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
All heads turned as Charles Bingley entered, his usually cheerful countenance drawn with fatigue. He carried a small package wrapped in linen. He bowed to the assembled company before addressing Mrs. Bennet directly.
“Forgive my intrusion at this early hour. I wish to provide news of Mr. Darcy’s condition.”
Elizabeth’s pulse pranced, scanning his expression for an inkling of Darcy’s situation. He wasn’t his usual cheerful self, but neither did he bear the demeanor of a man delivering devastating news.
“You are most welcome, Mr. Bingley,” Mrs. Bennet replied, gesturing to a chair. “Please, join us. We have been most anxious for word. How does Mr. Darcy fare?”
Bingley accepted the seat, his tired eyes landing on Jane before returning her parents’ greeting. Elizabeth caught the brief exchange—how his gaze lingered on her sister’s face.
“The fever continues,” Bingley said carefully, “though Mrs. Porter believes her poultices are drawing out the infection. The ice treatments have begun, and we hope they will break the fever where other remedies have failed.”
“Thank heaven,” Mrs. Bennet breathed. “And the wound itself? The infection?”
Bingley’s expression grew grave. “The infection had spread somewhat, but Mrs. Porter’s methods appear to contain it. Lady Catherine was most adamant that bleeding would weaken him further. She has taken complete oversight of her nephew’s care.”
“How lucid is he?” Mr. Bennet asked bluntly. “Can he take nourishment? Speak coherently?”
Bingley glanced at Elizabeth. “He is lucid at times, but prefers his sister’s ministrations. Lady Catherine has taken oversight of her nephew’s care and has engaged a professional nurse to assist Mrs. Porter.”
“It seems Mr. Darcy is well attended,” Mrs. Bennet observed, though her glance toward Elizabeth held unexpected sympathy.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Bingley said, extending the linen-wrapped package, “I believe you might wish to have this returned.”
Elizabeth accepted the parcel with trembling fingers, carefully unwrapping it to reveal the leather-bound volume on the language of flowers—the book Darcy had consulted when sending her his bouquet. Her breath caught as she opened it, discovering a pressed flower between the pages.
A pink rose. Delicate, perfectly preserved, its soft petals still holding a hint of their original blush.
“Oh,” she whispered, her voice barely audible as she traced the flower with gentle fingers. “Thank you, Mr. Bingley. I would have been sorry to lose this.”
“I understand it holds particular significance,” he replied. “Darcy was most insistent that you should have it, should anything happen to him.”
Elizabeth looked up sharply, her heart racing. “Mr. Darcy spoke of this?”
“He had noted your departure,” Bingley said. “He gave specific instructions about ensuring you received the book. He seemed to consider it important.”
The implications settled over Elizabeth like a warm cloak. Even facing the possibility of death, Darcy had thought of her. Had wanted her to have this tangible reminder of… what? The pink rose’s meaning echoed in her mind: understated beauty .
“Please convey our prayers for Mr. Darcy’s swift recovery,” Jane said softly, her eyes meeting Bingley’s with warmth. “And our gratitude for your kindness in bringing us news.”
Bingley’s expression softened as he looked at Jane. “I shall call again when there is more to report. You may depend upon it.”
As Bingley rose to take his leave, Elizabeth found her voice. “Mr. Bingley, would you—” She faltered, uncertain how to frame her request without impropriety. “Convey my gratitude, and I would keep any promises made?”
Bingley’s expression grew infinitely gentle. “I shall tell him, Miss Elizabeth. You may depend upon it.”
After Bingley departed, Mrs. Bennet’s curious gaze fixed on the book in Elizabeth’s hands. “What is it, dear? Something significant, I gather?”
“It’s a botanical reference, Mama, about medicinal plants and their properties.”
Mrs. Bennet’s eyebrows rose slightly. “And Mr. Darcy wanted to ensure you received it?”
Elizabeth felt heat creep up her neck, her fingers tightening around the book. “Yes, well… to further my education, of course, in nursing or perhaps even to aspire to a healer or physician.”
“A healer,” Mrs. Bennet repeated slowly, her tone losing its usual matrimonial excitement and taking on a more calculating quality.
“How very practical it is for Mr. Darcy to consider your prospects. Such knowledge would provide a lady with independence, should other opportunities prove unavailable.”
The delicate way her mother phrased it made Elizabeth’s chest tighten. Even Mrs. Bennet was beginning to accept that her second daughter’s marriage prospects might be permanently damaged.
Perhaps that was the true meaning of Darcy’s insistence that she possessed the book: that no matter what station or position Elizabeth would find herself in, the pressed rose was proof that at least one person had seen something beautiful when the rest could see nothing but disgrace.